


It Ends With a Fall

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Established Relationship, F/M, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Stalking, Unreliable Narrator, character studyish, slow burn kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Samson watches the Inquisitor, he forgets what hate feels like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the original prompt: Samson "falls" (quotation marks) for F!Inquisotor (preferably a mage) from afar, mostly because Cullen fell for her first and why should he get to have a woman that's that perfect--!  
> Basically, Samson stalks the shit out of the F!Inquisitor and attempts to "court" her in really, really creepy ways (IE sending her a carved crystal heart made out of red lyrium oh maker why iT STILL HAS A TOOTH SUSPENDED IN IT) and leaving notes in her room because you can't tell me Leliana managed to root out every single spy the Red Templars have, and just getting really gross and upsetting the hell out of the F!Inquisitor. And Cullen, Cullen is just. SO PISSED OFF over this. Because it gets kind of obvious over time that Samson's fixation on the f!inquisitor got spawned out of this weird...hate...thing...with Cullen Samson has. I'm okay with either Samson or the F!Inquisitor being the view-point characters, or, y'know, both. Both is good.

Samson expects the Inquisitor to walk in to the Chantry. He expects her to kneel down like a good Mage, bow her head, and let the Chant of Light spill from her lips. She’s supposed to be pure and whole and righteous; a perfect match for her golden Knight-Captain.   
  
Instead, when she drops to her knees, she’s not in front of Andraste, but next to a row of potted plants.  
  
She doesn’t fold her hands together to pray; she pushes them into darkened soil. Her shoulders shake not from reverence, but from digging and digging, pulling up grass and weeds. She pauses her work only to wipe sweat from her brow, leaving a brown streak in her finger’s wake. There’s an excited, pink tint to her cheeks. She looks happy, but she doesn’t smile.  
  
Not until Cullen approaches her.  
  
The Knight-Captain or Commander or whatever the hell he calls himself these days stands behind her. He’s nervous about something. Samson knows because Cullen’s still got all the same tells he did in Kirkwall—knitted brow, rubbing his neck, flexing his hand on his sword. For all his talk, Cullen’s still the same recruit: obsessing over plans and barking orders during the day, whimpering and cowering like a pup at night.   
  
Samson watches Cullen reach forward with a gloved hand, hovering above the Inquisitor’s shoulder.   
  
It reminds Samson of the Gallows—of Templars bothering Mages while they worked, always suspicious, always needing to know what they were up to. Can’t Cullen just let the girl be? The Inquisitor looks peaceful here. She doesn’t look old enough to command an army of soldiers, spies, and diplomats. She doesn’t look fierce enough to battle against Samson and win. She doesn’t look confident enough to pass judgment on people like him—people who were unlucky enough to pick the losing side and end up chained in her hall.  
  
Here, she looks like a young girl, working outside of a Circle, enjoying a few hours of fresh air and sunlight before a Templar locks her away. A Templar like Cullen. Not like Samson—Samson wouldn’t have dragged her back in to a tower. But Cullen would have.   
  
Somehow, Cullen as a Commander has grown a pair of balls he didn’t have as a Knight-Captain. He’s actually able to touch the girl—he brushes her shoulders gently, delicately.   
  
The Inquisitor turns her eyes on Cullen, all eagerness and earnest. Samson’s stomach turns in to twists and knots. Doesn’t she know what this man has done and said? Doesn’t she realize how he treated Mages like her? If she did, she wouldn’t have  _that_  look on her face.   
  
She raises to her feet and stands too closely to the Knight-Captain. “ _Cullen_ ,” she says like he is a breath of fresh air, like she’s been waiting all morning just to say his name.  
  
“You have dirt on your face, dearest.” Cullen murmurs the endearment quietly. She probably thinks it’s a precious secret meant only for her ears. Samson knows the truth—that the Templar speaks quietly so that his feelings about a Mage aren’t known.  
  
Samson watches her reach up and brush her fingers against Cullen’s cheeks. He catches her hand in his, holds it. “Now you do too,” she teases, voice loud, hiding nothing.   
  
Cullen blushes. Samson has never seen a man in his thirties blush, but there Cullen is, standing next to a pretty girl,  _blushing_. Samson laughs at him. So does the Inquisitor. Hers is warm like milk mixed with honey. His is a bark, a rough growl, something between a snigger and a scoff.   
  
She looks past the Commander’s blush, over his shoulder, at Samson. Samson does not look away. He has been judged, he’s been thrown on to his knees before her, and he will stare right back in to her eyes. They’re the same shade as lyrium—not the red stuff that gave Samson power, but the blue shit that made him weak.   
  
It’s probably why the Knight-Captain likes staring in to them so much.   
  
Samson just likes her eyes because, for a moment, he’s sure he sees a softness in them meant just for him.


	2. Chapter 2

“The Western Approach, Samson,” Cullen snarls at him, a sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cold. “I need to know where the Red Templars are located.”  
  
It’s unsurprising that Cullen’s office is freezing. Samson remembers Cullen—then in his early twenties, barely filled out enough to fit his armor—bitching under his breath about Kirkwall’s heat while Samson would press a pillow to his ears and try to sleep. As if the heat was what kept Cullen awake at night. Samson wasn’t stupid. Everyone in Gallows knew what happened in Kinloch Hold. Everyone knew why the Knight-Templar transferred.   
  
The only time Cullen’d stop sweating and fall a-fucking-sleep was after he peeled off his last layers of clothes and wrapped his lips around a vial of blue. That always shut him up. It used to shut Samson up too. For Cullen, lyrium made the nights bearable. For Samson, it made the days tolerable.  
  
Samson hides his own shivers now. Maybe they’re from lack of red. He’s got a few contacts still, a few people the Inquisition doesn’t know about, that could sneak him something. But for now, he’ll settle for blue. He’ll settle for blue, shiver, and bide his time in Cullen’s freezing office.   
  
But just because he’s forced to be here doesn’t mean he’s got to answer the Commander’s questions.  
  
“What’s a-matter,  _Knight-Captain?_ ” he asks, “Can’t figure it out with your great strategic mind?”  
  
Cullen’s better at keeping his composure. Much better than he was ten years ago. The only movement that gives away his annoyance is a stiffening of his neck and a clenched jaw. It’s a little disappointing, to be honest. When Cullen speaks, he is even-toned and tempered. “Dagna says that you’re cooperating with her…research.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure those were her exact words.” Samson snorts. Cullen always did have a flair for understatements. Poked, prodded, studied,  _dissected_  would be better descriptions than ‘research’. Still, he’d prefer the damp undercroft to Cullen’s office. At least Dagna’s honest. To her, he’s nothing but a curiosity. Not evil, not treacherous, just a thing to learn from. “What of it?”  
  
“Your cooperation in this is required as well. You gave your word to the Inquisition,” Cullen begins, gearing up to lecture him. Like a few self-righteous words from a man Samson doesn’t respect anymore would make him betray his men, the Red Templars.  
  
Because despite what Cullen says, Samson is  _not_  a traitor. Samson never abandoned the Templars for an easier life. He never turned his back on Kirkwall. He never left the Order. He stayed once they took him back. He stayed to the bitter end—no, he did better than that. He gave the Templars hope, gave them something stronger than blue.   
  
“Yeah, well, you would know a thing or two about breaking your word. How’re those Templar vows working out for you, by the way?”  
  
Cullen glares at Samson, eyes narrowed and lips pressed in to a thin line. Maybe the look would’ve worked on a raw recruit, maybe on an Inquisition soldier, but it won’t work on Samson. He’s seen Cullen curl in to himself and cry at shadows. Hell, once upon a time, Samson had placed a cool cloth on the other man’s forehead and murmured stupid, soothing shit. But useless words like that never change the past and they sure as hell don’t make the nightmares go away, and sometimes Samson wonders what the point in even trying was.   
  
It’s hard to be scared of a person after that—after the intimacy that comes with comfort. It’s hard to feel anything but pity, and Samson’s pity has festered in to something deeper, stronger, and sick.  
  
“Do not try my patience, Samson—”  
  
One of the doors bangs open on its hinges. Samson suspects it’s another patrol walking through. He doesn’t know how Cullen gets any work done with soldiers filing in and out. Dumat was quieter. Less organized, more desperate, but quieter. People actually got work done instead of hiding behind stone walls. People actually fought instead of moving markers and scribbling notes on dusty maps.   
  
But whoever entered can’t be another soldier. Cullen doesn’t look at the soldiers like this—the anger that was on his face fades away and melts in to something softer. The Commander stands up immediately. The chair scraps on the floor and nearly tips over with the force he used.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says, with all the reverence of a faithful man reciting the Chant. “I’d hoped you’d stop by.”  
  
It’s the most pathetic thing Samson has ever heard. The man can’t even use his lover’s name. He’s so bound by order and duty, and Samson doesn’t know how the Inquisitor stands it.  
  
“Am I interrupting something?” she asks. Her question is precise. Her tone is professional. But her voice sounds like warmed butter and Samson finds himself shifting in his chair, turning so he can see her just out the corner of his eyes.  
  
“No—I mean, yes.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck. Same man, same tells, same fucking inability to talk to a pretty girl. Cullen stops rubbing his neck when he catches Samson’s smirk. “But how may I assist you?”  
  
“I’m returning the books you lent me,” she says, and she takes a few steps forward.   
  
Samson can smell her now that she’s standing next to him. She smells… _nice_. Samson hasn’t used the word  _nice_  to describe anything in over a year. He’s been surrounded by nothing but ashes and red and death. Not fresh flowers, mountain air, and sunlight. He doesn’t know how someone can manage to smell like sunlight. It sounds stupid even in his head, but when she stands next to him, it’s what fills his senses.  
  
He breathes in deeper and he doesn’t bother to make himself stop.  
  
But typical Cullen, he has to ruin it, doesn’t he? She holds the books out infront of her, and when Cullen grabs them, he ruins it all by letting their fingertips brush.  
  
Cullen turns a shade of molten red, the same color as an ugly, newborn bird. It annoys Samson. If he had a woman— _no_ , not just any woman. If he had the Inquisitor standing across from him, he wouldn’t blush. He wouldn’t look away. He’d take that simple touch and turn it in to something more.   
  
The Inquisitor, though, she surprises Samson. She lowers her head and looks up at Cullen through her eyelashes. The movement would have been innocent, demure even, except that she takes her full bottom lip in to her mouth. She holds it precariously between her teeth for a moment, for a beat that matches the heavy thud in Samson’s chest, before letting it flick out. It’s sensual, almost carnal, the look in her eyes and the way her bottom lip glistens.  
  
Samson isn’t like Cullen. Cullen prefers order, routine, and rules. Samson likes surprises, and he likes the Inquisitor’s lips and the way they curl into a smug smile.   
  
“I’ll see you later,” she tells Cullen, words full of an unspoken promise.  
  
“Yes,” he replies immediately, voice thick and hoarse. “Later, Inquisitor”  
  
There’s a wiggle in her hips that’s barely noticeable when she turns around. Her steps are confident. He’s sure Cullen hates it, because it’s the kind of swagger that belongs on a Templar, not on a Mage. Her smirk may be satisfied, but the look on Samson’s face is hungry. Cullen makes their game too easy for her. One look and he’s a blushing, stuttering mess. There’s no chase, and he’s sure the Inquisitor needs something more. A woman like her is used to being on top and being in control.  
  
And Samson enjoys nothing more than bucking up against authority.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes only three mornings of Samson sitting patiently in the garden, watching the Inquisitor tend to her plants, before she finally approaches him.

He tries not to smirk when she does.

Samson can only imagine how many times Cullen stuttered a hello to get the Inquisitor’s attention. How many months did Cullen awkwardly shuffle next to her? How many stilted conversations full of unsure silences did she suffer through? There will be none of that with Samson.

Cullen is a lovesick pup, wetting himself in excitement any time she tosses him a scrap of attention. He follows her, chasing her, tripping her under foot, desperate for more but unsure how to ask.

Samson's a predator. He only needed to wait. She approached him first.

“I’ve seen you here before,” she observes. The Inquisitor’s shorter than him by at least a head, but she manages to look at him squarely. It’s another _nice_ thing about her. There aren’t many people in Skyhold who will meet his gaze. Most of ‘em scurry away. Ignore him. Mutter darkly under their wasted breath—like Samson gives a fuck what anyone thinks of him.

Not the Inquisitor, though. She’s braver than all of them. She stares straight back in to his eyes.

“I could say the same.”

The Chantry bell tolls. The Inquisitor glances behind her, at the door leading out of the garden and to the Great Hall. In barely a minute, Cullen will walk through that door. He’ll collect her for her meeting with the Inquisition’s other advisors, like he does every morning.

Cullen probably thinks he’s escorting her or wooing her or being _sweet_. It’s a daft idea.

A woman like the Inquisitor doesn’t need a fucking escort. Samson has fought against her and knows that, under her soft Mage robes and even softer skin, beats a heart stronger than Cullen’s. Cullen is scared of his own shadow, scared of his own soul. Cullen’s heart is weak from bad decisions and blue lyrium.

Samson isn’t weak. His heart is strong and red like the lyrium he’s swallowed. It beats hard in his chest—harder still when the Inquisitor speaks.

“Commander Cullen has advised me that I need to watch myself around you,” she says.

Samson snorts. It’s unbelievable that the man who damned all Mages when he woke from his nightmares, who flinched whenever magic was too close to him, would be warning a _Mage_ to stay away from _Samson_.

The world really is coming to an end.

Samson was a friend to the Mages in the Gallows. Cullen used to argue with him that he was lax with his charges; Samson’d tell him he was a bloody idiot if he thought Apprentices turned into abominations because they were a few minutes late their lessons.

Samson had looked the other way when Mages whispered in the hallways. He had cleared his throat loudly when he strolled down a stretch of balcony that held lovers’ alcoves. He sneaked Maddox’s letters out of the Circle. He accepted his punishment for that. He couldn’t accept Maddox’s.

Corrupting the moral integrity of a Templar. The Tranquil brand should’ve been used to protect Mages, not punish them. How often had he and Cullen fought over Knight-Commander Meredith’s brand of _discipline_?

In the end, it hadn’t mattered.

Whether it was because of or in spite of Knight-Commander Meredith, the Gallows fell.

Knight-Captain Cullen rallied the Templars to his cause. He set about fixing a broken city. Samson hadn’t stuck around; he’d gathered Maddox and anyone else who wanted to leave that damned town. And when Cullen’s stupid sense of honor was satisfied, when he had _done as much as he could for Kirkwall_ , he abandoned the Templars.

Samson picked up the pieces. Again. He’d given the Templars their strength back. He’d shared red with them; made them strong. He gave them purpose where they had none. Just like he’d had to do for Maddox.

He was sure Inquisitor didn’t know any of it. All she probably heard from her advisor was how Samson had quaffed the blue shit the Chantry gave them both until he was kicked out of the Order. How Samson, when offered the chance, came crawling back to the life he loathed and loved in equal parts.

Samson bet her golden Commander never bothered to mention how he greedily wrapped his lips around his own vial of blue every night. Did Cullen still think about that liquid or did he just settle for drowning himself in his lyrium scented Mage? She probably had no idea that she was being used. Someone strong and brave like her deserved better than that.

“But I make my own decisions about people,” she tells Samson firmly.

“You’ve already judged me, Inquisitor,” Samson replies. The memory of his knees hitting the hard stone in front of her throne, shackles cutting in to his wrists, Cullen looking at him like he was _better_ than Samson…it still burns fresh in his mind. It still makes him angry, spiteful.

“I’ve judged the Commander of Corypheus’s armies,” she agrees. “But…not the man.”

Samson takes a step closer to her. “What do you think of the man?”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t take a step back. She doesn’t shrink away like so many in this damned fortress do. She keeps meeting his eyes, and he feels like he’s stopped breathing. “I don’t know yet,” she says. She gives him a lopsided grin, one that draws his eyes to a dimple on her left cheek. “But I know people are more than their titles. Templar, traitor, vessel….”

“Mage, Herald, Inquisitor?” he offers, and she nods. They share a knowing look with one another. They’re not so different, she and him, and Samson asks, “Does this mean we’re going to go riding off into the sunset together?”

“No.” She laughs. It makes Samson grin, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. Let her see. He won’t sulk behind subdued glances and whispered compliments like Cullen does. “But it does mean you can stop trying to intimidate me by standing in the garden every morning.”

“It’s difficult to intimidate a woman who’s beaten you,” he replies.

She smiles at that. It’s a proud sort of grin. He wonders how often she gets told she’s an impressive warrior. Not often enough by Cullen, if at all. That man always preferred a broadsword and shield to the elegance of a staff with a blade on the end. Samson appreciates the subtle art of magic wielded in battle. Cullen never did. Cullen probably doesn’t understand how strong she is. Cullen probably only wants to protect her, shelter her, lock her away in another tower.

“Something I wish more people would keep in mind,” she says, the remnants of her laugh making her voice warm.

Cullen approaches her, not even a minute after the final Chantry bell tolls. Typical. In Kirkwall, Cullen was never late for a patrol, morning prayers, or his evening dose of lyrium. Cullen’s steps aren’t controlled. He’s walking briskly. Up until now, Cullen’s attention has always been focused on the Inquisitor.

But today, he watches Samson, and with every laugh that echoes around the courtyard, Cullen’s eyes narrow further.

“To work?” she asks when Cullen stops to stand next to her. They share a smile with each other, some sort of joke that only the two of them understand. Cullen puts a hand on her shoulder, lets it curl around her slender form. It’s a possessive movement. A warning, maybe? But coming from Cullen, it feels like a pissing contest.

“To work,” Cullen agrees, eyes lingering on Samson.

Samson sneers. Let Cullen lead her away, let Cullen clutch tightly to a woman who’s already slipping away.

This is only the first battle of many. Samson’s army may have fallen in the Arbor Wilds, but here, he’s winning a war that Cullen doesn’t even realize he’s waging. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the amazing comments and kudos. <333 to the max!

People pretend like Skyhold’s different than Dumat, but it’s not. Not to Samson.

Both fortresses stood untouched for years until war breathed life into them. Now ravens crisscross in the sky and messengers hurry up stairs so fast that they trip over themselves.

Nobles bitch and prattle the same way the Orlesians who pledged themselves to Corypheus did. At least as prisoner Samson doesn’t have to listen. The Inquisitor gets that particular honor. Samson settles for shoveling horse shit out of the stables instead.

The stables smell better than the makeshift infirmary. Even Skyhold, even the blessed Inquisition, doesn’t have Healers who can mend wounds that have been festering for weeks. Red Templars were quieter about their pain, though. It’s not bravery—red just does a better job at masking hurt. It works better than elfroot or lyrium ever could.

Cullen thinks, because the Inquisition uses only Chantry-approved chains, that they’re _better_. But he barks the same orders to his men that he did in Kirkwall: _parry, block, strike_. It’s no different than what Samson used to drill his men through. Doesn’t matter what uniform they might be wearing, soldiers still kill each other, and the Templars here are losing their minds just as surely as those in Dumat did.

Lyrium is lyrium—blue just works a bit slower than red.

Cullen knows it. He’s just got his head shoved up too far his ass to admit it.

Templars taking blue have time to say their good-byes. They have time to regret. The Templars Samson lead don’t get a chance to write letters to their loved ones—if there are any left in the world. When their backs become weighed down with red crystals instead of sunburst shields, when their veins run red from lyrium and not blood, they become as empty as any other Templar. Only differences is that red lyrium works faster—memories don’t ebb away, they get lost in a flood, leaving only rage behind.

Samson would prefer the quick death of red. Cullen wouldn't—Samson bets the Knight-Captain would love another chance to ruminate over all of his shitty decisions. Maybe it’d be good for him. Maybe he’d realize how many lives his inaction fucked up.

Not Samson, though. He’s spent enough time staring into the darker parts of his soul. He’d rather go out with a shout and bring whoever he can down with him. He’d take that over withering away in a cell.

Most days that’s what he feels like he’s doing. Polishing armor, repairing crumbling walls, letting Dagna prod him, suffering through another pointless meeting with Cullen. As if Samson would ever give up the remaining Templars, as if he’d turn _traitor_. The whole thing feels like waiting for death, like biding borrowed time.

And at night, Samson’s given a vial of blue lyrium. Just like every other Templar in Skyhold, he gulps it down. There’s no point in trying to hold out for something else. He drinks it, savors the sweet taste despite his complaints, and lets the liquid lull him into a restless sleep.

Samson gets nightmares in Skyhold just like he did at Dumat—just like Kirkwall, even. His dreams are filled with eyes that’ve turned hollow by an orange brand, Healers mending wounds caused by harsh whips, kids clinging to their mother’s skirts while Templars drag them away. Fear, disgust, all of it reflected in the eyes of Mages, Templars, and himself.

Location doesn’t make a difference. New uniforms change nothing. Same shit, different day.

But some mornings, after he’s able to unclamp his hands from his bedsheets, when his breathing becomes even again, Samson remembers a warm laugh and dimpled cheeks. He remembers the Inquisitor.

Skyhold is the same as Dumat, Samson decides, except for the Inquisitor.

Samson’s in the gardens every morning before her. It’s a routine he’s established. A routine _they’ve_ established. He’ll sit in her line of sight and when she walks through the door, she’s got no choice but to look at him. But even if he didn’t sit there, Samson thinks she’d come find him. Of course she would. If she didn’t want him there, she’d ignore him.

She’ll let her full lips turn into a tight, thin line. She’ll nod at him. He’ll return the greeting. Samson doesn't think they need words—not the way that she and Cullen do. Cullen’s always following her, always explaining himself, always stumbling over what he’s saying. All she and Samson need is one moment to see one another. She just needs to know he’s there. Just needs to take comfort in his presence.

She keeps on coming back every morning. She must enjoy the way they don’t need words.

But this morning is different.

The Inquisitor is already in the gardens by time he arrives. She’s leaning over her plants, caressing vines before picking leaves and flowers. His armored boots clack loudly against the stones of Skyhold. He sounds like a Templar, and her shoulders stiffen.

“I’m not in the mood for another _lecture_ ,” she begins without turning around. She pulls one of the leaves from a plant especially hard and it rips. “The Healers say I’m rested and my decision’s been made. It’s my choice to close the rest of the Rifts before—”

She turns. The annoyed expression on her face changes. Her lips—her wanton, red lips—are agape. He’s only ever seen them pursed in a firm line or warm and wide before. He stores the memory of how they look now with the other images he keeps close.

She exhales.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Samson says.

“You’re not who I was expecting,” she replies, eying him. She follows the hard lines of his armor and broad chest before snaking down his front, lower. Her eyes remain for a moment at his belt. He used to keep his sword strapped there—he still feels unbalanced without the weight.

Samson holds himself a little taller. “Should I be flattered?”

They stand across from one another. They stand _together_. Battling against someone creates a bond. Samson bets he understands her better than anyone else in this damned fortress. She didn’t hold back with him. She grinned at him with a face covered in blood when he tried to strike her down. Cullen’s probably never seen that—never seen that gleam in her eyes, never seen her with hands stained red, never seen how carnal she looked in that moment. She’s never shared that side of her with Cullen. Only Samson knows.

“Did you need something?” she asks.

Samson doesn’t. But he doesn’t think he should need a reason to talk to her.

She’s got the same robes on that she wore when she battled against him—velvet with silverlite, protecting her lithe body. Her staff is strapped to her back, and the pouches she has tied to her hips are full of herbs. He’s never seen her gather and reap her harvest, it’s always been planting, tending, and carefully cultivating.

He thinks that taking suits her more. She’d take from Samson too, but he’d make her fight for it, tooth and nail. Not like Cullen, with his soft words and gentle prodding. Cullen crumbles under her small smiles. Samson is stronger for them. Samson would be a challenge for her, but she’s a scrapper and he would enjoy every minute of their fight.

“Travel plans, Inquisitor?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Trying to whittle where the Inquisition is headed out of me?”

“Worried I’ll share your secrets?” he asks. Maybe he could. Maybe he could tell his few contacts left where she’s headed. But what would the point be? The Templars, as they once were, are no more. And maybe it’s better that way. Samson isn’t sure. Besides, he’s been beaten. It wasn’t Cullen’s army that brought him down to his knees, but this small, deceptively delicate Mage standing with him.

“I doubt you’re asking because you’re curious.”

“What if I was?” Samson licks his lips.

Her eyes linger. He lets his mouth curl into a smirk. He likes how her blue eyes stay focused on him. He likes the singular attention she has. He likes the way she watches him closely whenever he does anything around her, whenever he’s near. She studies him just as he memorizes her.

Her hands are covered in mud, in residue from the herbs she picked. He hopes—he _expects_ her to brush her hands against his face. He’s seen her do the same to Cullen before, but Samson’s developed a bond with her, so she should at least do the same for him.

When she does, he won’t capture her hand in his like Cullen did. He’ll grab it hard, tangle his fingers with hers. He’ll use her hand to tug her close to him until her body is flush against his, until he’s found every way she fits against his chest, and he’ll hold her tight enough that she can do nothing but melt against his touch. She won’t leave.

“I need to leave.”

Samson frowns at her sharply. She misses the expression; she’s already turned her back on him, and murmurs, “Travel plans and all, you know.

_No, you don’t_  need _to leave_ , Samson wants to say, but he bites his tongue. “'Course you do.”

She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t respond. Samson wonders if it’s because if she does, she’ll never walk away. She won’t leave him behind, not like how she leaves Cullen behind every time she ventures out of Skyhold.

She’ll come back to him. It’ll just take a little longer. He won’t chase her. When she comes to him, it will be willingly. It will be soon. And she will stay. 


	5. Chapter 5

She’s been gone for over a week and now that she’s returned, all Cullen can do it stand a _respectable_ distance from her.

The fortress had been on edge in the Inquisitor’s absence. Samson doesn’t remember Dumat like this. Kirkwall sure as hell didn’t give a damn whether Knight-Commander Meredith was in the Gallows or not. People didn’t mill about in worry; they got their work done regardless. They didn’t ride their horses faster, strike shields harder, or drink more in the tavern after a long day. Samson doesn’t remember people being worried and tense over the life of one person.

But no one’s been worse than Cullen. No one’s been in a fouler mood than Samson’s _handler_.

Cullen prowls the training yard. He stalks the battlements. He’ll stop in the middle of a sentence whenever Skyhold’s gates raise to let travelers in, hopeful look on his face. The Knight-Captain’s hands twitch more often and the gray bags under his eyes are almost worse than Samson’s. Whenever some unfortunate messenger brings Cullen a letter, he rips open the parchment and devours every word written. He drinks any news of the Inquisitor’s progress like a man who’s been lost in the Hissing Wastes for weeks. Like a lover starved for attention. Like a Templar who’s finally getting his nightly dose of lyrium.

Samson wonders if Cullen’s just swapped one addiction for another. It’d make sense. It must by why the same man who saw abominations and blood Mages in every face has jumped into bed with a Mage. Though, admittedly, she’s a pretty little one.

Samson bets that she even tastes like lyrium too.

The whole situation would be fucking hilarious if Samson didn’t also have to endure Cullen’s piss poor attitude. Because more often than not, Cullen’s short temper is directed at him. The man’s got a thick skull. He still seems surprised—angry, even—that Samson won’t give up positions of the Red Templars. Loyalty must be hard for a man who’s abandoned his vows to understand.

But when the Inquisitor finally rides through the gates, Cullen breathes a sigh of relief like the rest of Skyhold, and Samson strolls to the garden to wait.

He sits there for over an hour like a bloody fool. Every passing minute, every time the door opens and she doesn’t step through, he grinds his teeth harder. He expected her to be here. This was _their_ place. This is where they always met one another, watched one another, circled one another.

She’d want to see him—of that Samson is sure. He studied the signs last time they talked—how her anger had faded away upon seeing him, how her eyes had lingered on his body, the unspoken tension in the air between them. Surely she’d come running to him here.

But she still hasn’t arrived. So Samson does something he told himself he never would: he looks for his Inquisitor.

It doesn’t take long to find her.

Samson doesn’t even know why he’s surprised anymore. Cullen has always had luck on his side. Cullen always seems to get what he wants but doesn’t deserve.

The Inquisitor and her Commander stand on the battlements. They stare out, away from Skyhold, over the Frostbacks. They don’t caress one another. They don’t kiss. They don’t hold onto the other. There’s at least half a shoulder’s width between them. Probably on Cullen’s insistence.

Samson can’t believe _this_ pathetic excuse for affection is the kind of homecoming the Inquisitor endures. _Love_ , the kind that makes your palms sweat, your heart beat fast, makes you study the person in your waking hours and chase them in the Fade—nothing about that is _appropriate_. It’s hands groping over and under clothes, hot breath on cold skin, sweat dripping onto naked bodies. It’s writhing together for hours before finally coming undone. It’s raw and sloppy, wet and burning at the same time.

Cullen’s not like that. Cullen is nothing but propriety. He cares about appearances and professionalism. He gives a shit what others think of him. He was like that in Kirkwall, and a man who sees the world in only blacks and whites doesn’t change. How he even managed to get the Inquisitor’s attention in the first place is beyond Samson. How could a woman who fights fiercely, who stares back into his eyes, who smirks and bites her lips and wiggles her hips—how could a woman like _that_ want an overgrown boy who spends at least a good hour polishing his armor every night?

Samson can hear them from where he’s standing. He’s not hiding. He’s not lurking. He’s just…waiting for the right moment. But he can hear Cullen talking about supply lines. He drones on about requisition orders. He details troop movements. And the Inquisitor just stands next to him, nodding, listening to him. Maybe she really is a fucking saint.

Their conversation is not what lovers should talk about. Lovers should talk about the ache in their bones and how every breath they take is for the other person. Not sodding training schedules. Samson would tell her how she smells like sunlight and fresh cut flowers and how he can’t get the damned scent out of his head.

Sometimes Cullen will smile at her. _Smile_. As if that’s enough, as if that’s a _gift_ any Mage should be grateful to get. Look at the kind Templar, look how he’s graced the Mage with his affection, look how he withholds it and hordes it and hides it.

It’s enough to make Samson wretch. He wants to turn away; shoveling horse shit would be preferable to this. It smacks of the Gallows. It’s like love letters snuck out of Circles, skirts hitched hastily in darkened halls, rumors whispered of affections but nothing ever confirmed.

For a man who claims he’s not a Templar, Cullen sure treats his woman like they’re back in a Circle.

“No,” he hears Cullen warn. It’s almost the same tone he used in Kirkwall—almost the same tone he used to when disciplining Templar recruits or Mages. But there’s a warm undertone, and Samson stays, curious, despite the sick feeling in his stomach. “There’s no mention of an area of that description in any of the scout’s reports. We can discuss this with your other advisors, but I’d rather not send our soldiers on a wild goose chase. _Again_.”

“I saw it,” the Inquisitor argues. When she talks, she does so with small flicks of her wrists, with her fingers dancing through the air. They brush lightly against the plate of Cullen’s armor, and even though the man probably can’t feel it through layers of metal, leather, and linen, Cullen’s face turns pink and there’s a quirk at the edge of his lips. “I would’ve marked it, but I was a little busy, you know, killing hordes of demons and the like.”

“Your sense of direction has been inaccurate before.” There’s a teasing tone to the Commander’s words. Can’t be, though. The man who bunked with Samson in Kirkwall had to have every joke explained to him. Patiently. Sometimes twice. There’s no way he could be teasing. “Shall I fetch a map to prove you wrong?” Cullen asks.

“Prove me _right_ , you mean,” she corrects him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he chuckles, back already to her, taking a step away.

Samson sees it. This his opportunity. This is his chance to walk up to the Inquisitor, to trade remarks with her, to explain how rare it is that this fortress missed her, to say how surprised he is to count himself in that group, to show her what love should be like. It’s his chance to show that love’s not this half-assed, passionless shit she’s sharing with Cullen. All their days are numbered, hers more so than others, and she deserves better. She deserves what Samson can give her.

“Don’t get distracted,” she sings to his retreating back.

Cullen halts. The Inquisitor takes a step towards him, and then in one movement Cullen has crossed the space between them. The wind gets knocked from them both as their bodies clumsily collide. Their lips bump together. Their teeth click. Cullen’s eyes are open and hers are closed. A laugh bubbles in her throat, comes out as an ungraceful snort through her nostrils. Cullen brings his large hands up to her face, holds it, and lets his thumbs run over her cheekbones.

He’s still wearing his gloves. How can he still wear his gloves? How can he touch her with a layer of leather between them?

“Before you left, I shouldn’t—”

Samson’s jaw is clenched so tight that it aches.

“Shh,” she laughs. “Let’s just skip to the making up part.”

Cullen shakes his head. He lets his hands drop from her cheeks. Samson thinks he’s going to rest them on her shoulders, maybe her waist, somewhere acceptable and chaste. But his hands drift to her hips, settling there and pulling her closer. “I hate to think that—” She brushes her lips where his neck meets his jaw, where bone begins to angle downward. “…I suppose I could be persuaded.”

Her hands run down his pauldrons, down his arms, before she entwines their fingers together. Cullen’s clumsy hand dwarfs her nimble fingers. She tugs him hard, proud smile perched on her lips. There’s a bounce in her step that Samson hasn’t seen before, but when she turns she catches sight of him watching them both, and she stops. She _stills_.

Samson grins.

“What’s—” Cullen gets a familiar crease between his eyebrows. “ _Samson_ ,” he growls.

“Shit weather we’re having, huh?” Samson asks. He’s speaking to both of them, but his eyes stay on the Inquisitor. “Looks like it might rain. You better hurry on inside, Knight-Captain. Wouldn’t want everyone seeing you get _wet_.”

Cullen lets go of her hand. He puts his on the pommel of his sword. His fingers grip it tightly, wrapping around it, caressing it with his thumb. Samson bets his knuckles are turning white under his gloves.

“Good trip, Inquisitor?” Samson adds.

Her fingers flex in the air, uncertain in the absence that Cullen has left. Her mouth is pressed into a thin, tight line that he’s seen many times before. She nods, meeting his eyes for a beat, before twisting away on her feet.

It’s been their way, hasn’t it? That they don’t need words for one another. But he thought she’d be in the gardens, and she wasn’t. He thought she’d come seek him out, and she didn’t. He thought that when Cullen dropped her hand, she’d step towards Samson instead of away, but she hadn’t. Now she’s already halfway to Cullen’s office, pace brisk, leaving him behind.

Cullen glares at Samson—the glare becomes deeper when Samson only shrugs in response—before he chases after the Inquisitor like he always does. She pauses, lets him catch up, and then the two have their heads ducked close to one another and are murmuring words that Samson can’t hear.

For the first time since Samson let red lyrium slip past his lips, he feels doubt. It’s like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach, weighing down his shoulders, his feet, and his thoughts. Maybe he can chalk it up to chugging the blue shit they give him, maybe it’s withdrawal symptoms from red, or maybe…maybe he’s miscalculated the Inquisitor.

He and his Inquisitor or both people of action. Maybe he has been going about this the wrong way—maybe he needs to show her how much better he is than Cullen, how much more he can offer than the Knight-Captain. Once he starts to show, the doubt will leave, and there’ll be no uncertainty about how Samson feels. There won’t be any guessing games like Cullen’s played with her.

She’ll know and understand, and next time she returns, Samson won’t wait for her. He’ll find her before Cullen does.

He always will.


	6. Chapter 6

Samson wonders if all lovers keep secrets or just those who have spent their lives locked in a Circle.

Templars are shit at relationships. Even under the best of circumstances. Samson’s never met a married Templar. Hell, he’s never met a Templar who was able to keep up a relationship for more than a few months. There’s not anything that compares to the power and fulfillment a Templar gets when guzzling down lyrium. No mere woman or man could compare to that. There’s no competition.

But it goes both ways. The thrill of having a Templar lover wears off about the same time their famous stamina does. Who wants to wait months for your lover to be granted leave? Who wants to sleep in a cold bed when you know your lover is patrolling pretty young Mages? Who wants to be second fiddle to a phial of liquid? No one, that’s for fucking sure. Not even other Templars.

Mages aren’t much better. At least they’ve got an excuse for why their relationships fail. Can’t have Mages making more Mages. Can’t have them giving into their base desires. Can’t treat them like fucking people.

Relationships between Templars and Mages are even more disastrous. They come in two flavors—either robes hitched up in a hall or sidelong glances and far off sighs. At best, their relationships are rumors of rutting. At worse, they’re a longing that never ends.

Samson’s heard people say the secrecy is a necessity in a Circle. He used to scoff at that until Maddox. He used to scoff until Maddox was made Tranquil because neither one of them were discrete enough. Samson wasn’t ever any good at keeping secrets, at being subtle, at _hiding_.

But Samson isn’t in a Circle anymore. Neither is his Inquisitor. Nor Cullen. Still, those two act like they are. Cullen hordes and hides her affection. And his Inquisitor? She’s been keeping secrets from her Commander, from her Knight-Captain.

Samson runs his hands over the spine of the book his Inquisitor has been reading. The leather of the book is dark. Worn. It’s made soft from use. The spin is cracked. But the book feels warm from the sunlight. She found the one bright spot in this whole dark tower.

Samson flips open to a dog-eared page. He smiles at the crease. Circle Mages always found little ways to rebel, and he supposes old habits die hard. Samson should know.

_What would your Templar think of this?_ Samson writes on a torn piece of parchment that night.

Cullen’d be pissed if he knew what his little Mage was reading, what secrets she’s keeping. He had been a strict Knight-Captain, but the Inquisitor is no Apprentice. He can’t restrict her access to the library. He can’t rip a book out of her hands. He can’t throw her into solitary for a couple of days. The best he could hope to do is give her some tired, old lecture.

Not Samson, though. Samson doesn’t care why she’s reading a book on Blood Magic. He doesn’t care that she’s got a stack of books next to her chair on Necromancy, demons, and whatever else _good_ Mages aren’t supposed to study. Let her. She’s a smart girl. Helluva lot smarter than Cullen. She doesn’t need anyone to look over her shoulders, to monitor her.

Especially not some broken boy who’s got blood on his own hands.

_Do you always keep secrets from him?_ Samson’s quill presses so hard into the paper that he almost rips it. _You and I don’t need to._

Samson’s not her Templar. He’s not her handler, not her keeper. Not even her lover. But he thinks their bond is deeper than that—he’s been her enemy. They’ve seen the best and worst of each other. After that, there can be no secrets.

Samson learned that years ago with Cullen.

He folds up the parchment he had been scribbling on. He tucks it carefully into the next chapter of the book she was reading. He’ll enjoy watching her reactions when she resumes her studying tomorrow afternoon.

He wishes he could do more. He wishes he could do something other than sneak her notes like they’re back in a Circle. This is what Maddox was forced to do. Samson remembers complaining to the Mage as his love letters grew longer, thicker, and Samson struggled to hide them between the plate of his armor.

Samson tries to remember what Maddox wrote. What words did he scribble that made a woman fall in love with him? How did he describe this hot, burning, consuming feeling that rears in Samson’s chest? Samson’s never been the best with words. He’s better with actions. It’d be easier to show her how he feels. He wishes he could stroll up to his Inquisitor in the Great Hall.

He’d take her hand and press it against his chest, over his heart, so she could feel how she makes his pulse quicken, how his heart beats faster, how his breath catches.

He’d let his body show her what words can’t describe.

But he can’t. Not yet. Samson’s still called a traitor. People still spit as he walks by—if they even bother to acknowledge him at all. She’s still everything pure and whole left in the world. People still think she’s a perfect match, a missing puzzle piece, to her righteous Commander.

So he settles for leaving her notes in her forbidden books that only the two of them know about.

_I would paint your whole body red_ , Samson writes one night. _I’d know every part of you._

He writes these words after he spent an hour resting his elbows on the railings of the rotunda, watching her. He knew she’d be there—it was about mid-afternoon, and he’s memorized her whereabouts as best as he can. After all, he’s got about as much experience as Cullen at watching Mages.

She sat cross-legged on the ground. She tilted her head and listened attentively to the old elf droning on about battles that she was too young to even know of. Samson watched as she absently dipped a finger into a pot of paint, and traced patterns on her skin that he didn’t recognize.

Samson doesn’t think her skin would be soft. It’d be calloused, weathered, lovely and _real_. Not supple and smooth like some teenage wet dream. She’d probably like how rough and hard his hands are against her—not like Cullen’s hands, because Samson doesn’t need to protect himself in layers of linen, leather, and metal around her. He wouldn’t treat his Inquisitor like she’s a moment away from breaking or running away.

_You fight better than half of the Commander’s sorry excuse for recruits,_ he write the next day. He watched her train the practice yard with the Seeker.

Templars never cared for Seekers. Even Cullen didn’t like them. Samson was no different. He remembers the both of them talking late into the night about what changes the Seekers would bring. What would they think of the Gallows? Cullen fretted they’d demand Knight-Commander Meredith change her tactics. Samson worried they’d reduce their lyrium rations. They both wondered if they’d transfer Mages out or bring more Templars in.

There hadn’t been any need for concern. All Seekers were the same—talk with no action. Their armor might’ve looked different, but they were just as good as Templars at ignoring the Gallows’ problems. They clung to comforting lies just like everyone else in that damned Circle.

But this Seeker isn’t so bad. She could be a lot worse. She’s done one thing right—she’s coaxed his Inquisitor out into the training yard, and Samson gets to watch her fight while he helps the rest of the unskilled labor in Skyhold rebuild crumbling walls.

Samson loves watching his Inquisitor like this. It’s _nice_. He likes seeing how powerful she is, how much better she is than everyone else. She digs her feet into the ground and holds her staff between her hands like a weapon. She uses it to block the Seeker’s blows. She’s stronger than she looks.

Sweat pours down her neck. It trickles down her back, makes her shirt cling to curves that Mage robes tend to hide. He closes his eyes and imagines planting open mouthed kisses across her body with his cold tongue. He imagines lapping the salt on her skin. He imagines every inch of her that Cullen has seen, every inch that Cullen has claimed, and making all of her _his_.

Samson does an even shittier job than usual rebuilding the wall that afternoon.

His Inquisitor lands a couple of blows against the Seeker before she yields. She leans against her staff and uses it to hold her exhausted weight up.

“You did well,” the Seeker tells her, and she flushes in pride. “But you need more practice.”

_Do you blush anywhere else?_ He scribbles before depositing the note in the next book she’s reading. _What do I need to write to see where else you turn pink?_

Samson doesn’t wait for his Inquisitor in the gardens anymore. He lays in his hard cot, listening to the loud roar of Skyhold’s underground waterfall. He dreams of the Waking Sea’s gentle lapping against Kirkwall’s shore.

When the Chantry bell finally tolls, when he knows she’s in the garden, only _then_ does he force himself out of bed. Suits him better this way, really. He never was an early riser. Maybe that’s why the Knight-Commander put Cullen in his room. He always went to bed late, so a screaming boy never disturbed his pattern much.

This morning, when he enters the hall, Samson hears a door creak on the other side. She steps out next to where he was thrown on the ground before her. She glances around quickly, straightening her shirt, before she makes a sharp turn and walks into the Ambassador’s office.

He doesn’t let the change in her pattern bother him. She’s probably late for a meeting with her other useless advisors. Samson bets that Cullen’s prowling around the table now, wondering where his precious little Mage is. He probably wishes they were back in the Circle where he’d have an excuse to tail her all day. Hell, Samson wouldn’t put it past him to set up patrols here.

Samson makes to leave. Maybe he can get another hour of sleep in before Dagna starts poking him. But there’s another creak on the other side of the hall, and Samson turns in time to see Cullen step out of the Inquisitor’s rooms.

He tightens the straps that hold his breast plate together. He readjusts the sword belted to his side. His hair that he spends hours carefully slicking back into place is mussed.

_What would the faithful masses think_ , Samson writes that night, _if they knew their holy Herald didn’t spend her nights alone?_

Samson knows that life isn’t fair. He knows that there’s no such thing in this world as justice. There’s no invisible scale that needs to be balanced. All anyone can do is the best for themselves. Samson tried more once—he tried to do the best for Maddox. He tried to do what was best for the Order. Still went to shit.

Samson knows all this, but he can’t stop from his blood boiling as he watches Cullen sneaking out of the Inquisitor’s rooms. He can’t stop his blood boiling from the _unfairness_ of it.

_Should a man with Mage blood on his hands be touching you at night?_

Samson’s never been able to turn his face away. Maybe he looks too hard at everything, questions too much, and that’s why he didn’t make a good Templar. But he supposes, in the end, he was a better Templar then Cullen.

_He’ll abandon you just as easily as he abandoned the Order. Just wait til he’s had his fill of you._

Samson’s not an idiot. He knows these notes aren’t working and he knows what the Inquisition wants. He knows what the _Inquisitor_ wants. It’s not the poking and prodding Dagna does. It’s not cleaning the rookery, shoveling the stables, or rebuilding walls. Cullen doesn’t drag him into his office for pleasant conversations and to talk about the fucking weather.

No, what the Inquisitor wants is to win. She wants to bring Corypheus down to his knees. She wants to rip bone from flesh and tear him apart. Her pretty face hides a bloodlust that she never kept secret from Samson. What she wants—what she _needs_ is for the General of Coryephus’s forces to give the Inquisition info. Bases of operations, info on Corypheus, whatever the hell she needs to decimate him.

Samson’s labeled as a traitor. He bets he’ll be that forever. Leaving her damned notes won’t make a lick of difference while she’s the Inquisitor.

If he could change that…if he could prove that he’s not a traitor, then he’d have a chance. He’d have more than that. He’d be able to stroll up to her and show her how he feels instead of writing clumsy words.

But Samson’s not a traitor. He’s not. He would never betray his men. He can’t betray the Order. It doesn’t matter if the Templars are red or not. He won’t. He can’t. It’s not who he is.

It’s not worth it.

He rips a piece of parchment out of her book. His hands shake. Is it from lyrium withdrawals? Somehow, he doesn’t think so.

_I can tell you what you want to know,_  he scribbles desperately.

The next morning, Samson is awoken roughly by Cullen in his cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for all the awesome comments and feedback! :D :D :D


	7. Chapter 7

“Get up, Samson.”

Cullen’s breath is hot on his face. Samson turns away, into his dirty pillow, and closes his eyes. It’s too early to deal with Cullen’s shit. It feels like he only just fell asleep.

“Get _up._ ” He tears the blankets Samson had been given off of his body, and Samson is left shivering from the cold that Skyhold’s stones give off.

Samson wishes Cullen would bark orders at him again. Yell at him to get up. Growl at him like some dog. Anything’d be better than what he’s doing now. Cullen’s eyes are on Samson’s chest. A mix of old and new scars make their home there. The old ones—the little silver streaks that crisscross his body—Cullen ignores those. They’re unimportant; every warrior should have some, Samson’s had them since Kirkwall. But Cullen hasn’t seen the red marks, angry and mended poorly. Some are small, others expand the whole length of Samson’s chest, and none of them will ever fade. Those scars Cullen stares at. He stares long and hard.

Pity. Disappointment. Samson sees both in Cullen’s stupid mud-brown eyes. He bets it’s pity for what red lyrium’s done to Samson’s body. Disappointment in the trade Samson chose to make—switching blue poison for red. Samson would do it again, though. He might be scarred from wounds that won’t heal properly. His skin may look pallid and grey and sickly. His eyes are redder than most, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all appearances. Underneath the surface, Samson’s got power that he never had in Kirkwall. His muscles are strong, he can strike others down harder and faster, and any Templar abilities blue gave him are ten times stronger with red.

It’s a strength that Cullen could only imagine, and if his Inquisitor hadn’t been such a powerful Mage, Cullen would’ve known what the consequences of that strength were intimately.

Samson grabs his shirt from a pile of rags on the floor. He doesn’t need Cullen’s pity. Doesn’t need the pity of a boy who still screams at nightmares. Samson sure as hell doesn’t need his disappointment either. Why would he care what a man who abandoned his vows thinks of him? He doesn’t give a shit about some commander who’s been made soft from sitting behind a desk, letting his inquisitor do the real work on the front lines.

Samson pulls the shirt over his head. He doesn’t need _anything_ from Cullen. “Fuck off,” he spits. “You’re not here to admire the view.”

Cullen shakes his head, the pitiful, puppy-dog eyed look gone. He steps out of the cell and leaves the door open. He doesn’t turn his back to Samson. He’s waits patiently like Samson’s being a spiteful child, like he should know what the hell is going on.

“Assigned to escort duty? That’s quite a demotion from Commander,” Samson says, angry. He stands up, crosses his arms over his chest. “Didn’t realize I even needed one to see the dwarf.”

“Arcanist Dagna, not _dwarf_ ,” Cullen corrects him immediately. “And that’s not where we will be going.”

Samson stays in his cell. He’s not moving an inch until he knows what’s up. Besides, he’s got the time. It’s not like he’s got a whole army to run. Samson bets Cullen’s getting more and more annoyed just thinking about the reports piling up on his tidy desk.

“The Inquisitor has… _requested_ your presence in the war room.” Cullen glances at his face, looks at him squarely finally, and by the disgusted look there, Samson knows he’s loathe to do so. His eyes are slanted at him, narrowed and glaring.

Does Cullen know? Does he know about the letters Samson’s left for the other man’s lover? Why else would he glare at him like that? Why else would he be the one waking him up instead of a guard? Samson would’ve preferred the Inquisitor escort him, but perhaps he can still have some fun with this. Just a different kind. Better in some ways.

“Wonder why that’d be,” Samson says innocently. Well, as innocently a he can manage with a smirk on his face. He walks past Cullen, not bothering to stop his shoulder from bumping into the other man’s.

Cullen jogs to catch up to him. His mouth opens as closes, fuming over whether or not to respond, whether he should take the bait Samson’s dangling in front of him. But in the end he does, because Samson knows Cullen better than either man wants to admit. In the end, Cullen murmurs, “You _know_ why.”

So he _does_ know about the letters. Good. He should know. He _should_ be scared and worried about them. The Inquisitor’s requesting Samson in the War Room; it won’t be long before Samson takes Cullen’s place in more ways than just that.

“She’s kept them, then?” Samson asks, tone cheerful. He tilts his head, glances at Cullen, studying him for a reaction as he adds, “Did she show the letters to you?”

Cullen walks swiftly. Samson follows faster too. They both try to outpace one another. Samson speeds up, and Cullen does the same, until Cullen’s armor is making loud, clanking noises and Samson’s taking the steps to the Great Hall two at a time. It’s just another pissing contest between the two, one that Samson’s sure annoys Cullen, and therefore he doesn’t mind playing it.

“Were they in a drawer next to her bed?” he asks, egging the Commander on. There’s more guards in the Great Hall than Samson’s ever seen before. Nice to know that even in his weakened state, the Inquisition still considers him a threat.

Judging by Cullen’s clenched jaw, Samson’s words have hit a nerve. “She kept them there like some precious thing, didn’t she?”

Cullen stares ahead, ignoring Samson. He probably thinks he’s being _dignified_ by not responding. Doesn’t matter. The red creep up his neck to his cheeks says just how easily Samson is riling him up. “Were they locked away? Did you need a key from your Spymaster?”

They’re nearing the war room. Cullen throws open the door to the Ambassador’s office with more force than necessary, and pushes his body through it before Samson can. Must be a dominance thing. Shows he’s in control by stepping through doorways first. Cullen is simple like a dog, maybe he thinks that sort of bullshit will work on Samson.

“Did you go snooping after your errant Mage?” Samson asks, wondering how much more he can get to Cullen before he breaks. He just needs to push a little harder. “She’s a naughty one. Too bad you can’t punish her like in a Circle, Knight-Captain—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Cullen growls, spinning around on Samson. They’re at the entrance to the War Room now, but Cullen doesn’t open the door. He stands tall, trying to tower over the other man, and he snarls, “You know _nothing_.”

It’s Cullen who knows nothing. He doesn’t know anything about the Inquisitor. The _real_ Inquisitor. He doesn’t know about her secret books, didn’t know she kept Samson’s letters, doesn’t know her blood lust, doesn’t understand the weight of the leadership on her shoulders, or why she smells like sunlight. He doesn’t know _any_ of the things about her that Samson knows.

“Jealous, are you?”

“Of you?” Cullen snorts, turning his head away. “Hardly.”

“Then why are your hands shaking, Knight-Captain?”

“They’re not—” Cullen closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. He’s steadying himself. Counting to ten. Some other dumb technique the Templars taught him to calm him down when he woke up screaming in the middle of the night. Can’t have another Templar scaring the recruits off lyrium, after all.

Finally, Cullen opens his eyes, and says in what he probably thinks is a calm voice, “This was not my idea, Samson.”

“’Course it wasn’t,” Samson replies swiftly. He puts his hands on the door of the War Room. Cullen wants to show dominance? Cullen wants to show that he’s in charge? Then Samson will speak in a language he understands. He walks through the door, not waiting for the other Templar. “You don’t have many original ideas, do you? Just following orders as usual.”

For all of Samson’s bravado, he pauses when he actually enters the War Room. When he was general of Corypheus’s armies, he would’ve killed for a chance to be in here. Now he just enjoys it because it’s not a place he’s seen his Inquisitor before. He finds that he delights in watching her in places that Cullen takes her presence for granted in, or discovering things about her that the other man doesn’t know.

Her head is bent over some parchments. Her Ambassador and Spymaster stand next to her, viewing the same documents. They look up and eye Samson with the same suspicious look Cullen always wears. He tries to catch his Inquisitor’s eyes—he thinks he does for a moment—but then Cullen walks into the room behind him and any of her attention he had is drawn away.

Cullen strides towards the other advisors. He takes a place next to the Inquisitor. He keeps a respectable distance, as always, but his hand flexes on the pommel of his sword. “I’ve brought the _prisoner_ ,” he says as if he can’t even bear to use Samson’s name.

“You have information you would like to share,” the Spymaster says. It’s not a question.

Samson walks towards the table. He doesn’t respond to her. He’s not here for the Spymaster, Ambassador, or Commander. He’s here for his Inquisitor. Samson studies the map. He looks at the markers. He tries not to seem impressed, because he knows he’s being watched closely, but the Inquisition knows more than Samson thought they would. They know more than he ever expected.

He feels a little proud of his Inquisitor.

“Any connections between the Elder One and the Orlesian nobles who cooperate with him would be most useful,” the Ambassador says.

“Our scouts have suggested that there are spies in these holdings,” the Spymaster says, pointing to a few specific Keeps on the map. “Their identities will do.”

“I want to know the supply lines for the rest of the red lyrium deposits, Samson,” Cullen says, staring across the table.

The Inquisitor has not spoken yet. Samson stares at her, willing her to return his gaze. She’s the only person in Skyhold whose ever stared back at him, and he wants—no, _needs_ her to keep doing so. “And what,” he says, “Does my lady desire?”

She’s got a figurine in her hand and she’s thumbing it. She stares at the map, chewing her bottom lip, before responding, “Locations.” She looks up at Samson, looks directly into his eyes when everyone else flinches away, and for a moment Samson breathe a sigh of relief.

Until she finishes her sentence.

“I want the locations of the Red Templars,” she says firmly.

It had been so easy to scribble those words on parchment. It had been so easy to write _I can tell you what you want to know_. But standing here, Samson isn’t so sure he can.

They’re not just Red Templars. They’re his Red Templars. His _men_. They’re not just an enemy, they’re not just markers on a board, they are _people._ His people. How can he give them up? How can he be a traitor? How can he let the Inquisition turn him into what he’s always said he’s not?

“I knew it,” growls Cullen, “This is but a joke to him.”

“Perhaps he can be persuaded in different ways?” the Spymaster asks, a cold look on her face.

“Cullen,” the Inquisitor says quietly, “Would you escort him back?”

“Surely there is _some_ information he can give us,” the Ambassador insists, scribbling notes on her parchments. “Otherwise, we could use him to gain favor. We could use his captivity to barter with one of our allies.”

“Cullen,” the Inquisitor repeats, “I’d like him back in his cell for now.”

“Perhaps,” continues the Ambassador, “We could use his execution for bargaining? I know Kirkwall in particular would be pleased.”

“I will consider your counsel in time,” his Inquisitor says. She’s gripping the marker in her hand more tightly. “He needs escorted back to his cell. Now, if you please, Cullen.”

“Of course,” Cullen begins, “But I believe we should consider—”

Samson closes his eyes, ignores Cullen’s rough timbre, and tries to imagine how the Inquisitor would speak his own name. Will that ever happen now that he’s refused to betray his people? Both he and Cullen’s names are two syllables. But whereas she lets the l’s of Cullen’s name click on her tongue, he’s sure that she’d hiss Samson’s name.

He likes the idea of her hissing.

“Elain,” he says suddenly.

The Inquisitor and her advisors stop their incessant chatter. The two women stare at Samson, but Cullen’s got his eyes narrowed. His Inquisitor— _Elain’s_ mouth is slightly agape, and there is wonder in her eyes.

“What do you want, Samson?” Cullen asks gruffly. Is he pissed that someone used his precious Mage’s given name? If he is, Cullen should have the balls to do it himself, Samson decides.

“ _Elain_ ,” he repeats, more insist this time. She stares at his lips as they form her name. “The Venatori. The Western approach. I can tell you where they are.”

Her attention is focused on him now. Her Commander stands next to her, fuming, completely forgotten.

It’s not the Red Templars. He won’t betray his men, he won’t betray Templars, red or not. But Calperina? She doesn’t give a damn about him. All she cared about was her people. It was something Samson respected, but they were _hers_ and not his. So he’ll use Calperina and her Venatori. He’ll offer them as bait to his Inquisitor, binding them together. He offers her a morsel, and she laps it up.

“Tell me,” she says, eagerness in her voice, eagerness on her face. It’s all for him. _None_ of it is for the Commander.

“Come closer,” he says, grin hungry and feral.

But she doesn’t. It’s not what Samson expected. She glances at Cullen. He can hear the man—always incapable of words—make some low, guttural noise. He keeps his eyes focus on the Inquisitor—on _Elain_. He keeps his eyes focused on her eyes that are the color of lyrium.

Samson reaches across the war table. He reaches out for the marker she has been thumbing in her hand. Her fingers are wrapped tightly around it. Samson places his hand over hers, and she gasps while he exhales in relief.

Warm. Her hand is warm just like he imagined and dreamed it would be.

He pulls her hand away from her chest. He guides it with his over the map of Ferelden, over Orlais, until their entwined fingers are holding the marker over the Western Approach. He pushes her hand down none-too-gently until the marker is pressed firmly on the map.

He keeps his hand wrapped around hers. He can feel her pulse beneath his fingers. Her heart must be beating as fast as his.

Samson leans in closer to her. He leans as close to her as he has seen her lean towards Cullen before. He murmurs, quietly enough that she is forced to lean in too, to feel his hot breath against her face, “The Still Ruins. That’s where you’ll find the Venatori.”

His voice, his warmth on her face, has the desired effect. She _shivers_. The sun is warm, the War Room is stuffy, there’s no cool breeze, and she is surrounded by her advisors, but Elain _shivers_ for him.

Samson hears her breath hitch. She tugs her hand out from under his, and places it against her throat, laying it across the bare skin there, like she’s trying to force her breathing to still, to catch her breath. He has made her _breathless_ and he loves it.

She takes a step back, away from the table. She can’t stand being close to him, like if she allows herself this then she will not be able to hold herself back, even among her advisors. Samson bets she doesn’t care that he’s a Templar. She doesn’t care that he used to be the general of Corypheus’ forces. Maybe she’s finally seeing the man behind the title like she promised she would when they first met. Maybe she doesn’t care about any of it anymore now that he’s helped her, given her some of what she wanted.

He’ll give her so much more when she lets him.

She forces her eyes away, and she looks at her Commander. A beat goes by—again, Samson is sure she’s just trying to catch her breath. She says, “Please—Cullen—” the use of his name irks Samson, but it doesn’t matter. Her eyes are bright and her cheeks are red and he had that effect on her, not Cullen. “Please see that Samson is escorted back to his cell. Immediately.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Cullen says to her softly. His hand brushes down the length of her arm. She smiles at him, but it looks strained. She probably doesn’t want the Commander touching her. Probably doesn’t want his blood stained hands on her. Not after she’s touched Samson.

“I will not tolerate games,” Cullen says to Samson as he leads him away. There’s a guard waiting outside the War Room, and Cullen shoves Samson towards the other man, out of the room. His brow is knitted and he looks concerned. He _should_ be, Samson thinks. Samson’s three simple words— _the Still Ruins_ —elicited more of a reaction from her than he’s ever seen Cullen cause.

Samson can see Elain over Cullen’s shoulder. Her hand is rested against her throat still. He catches her eyes, and her cheeks turn pink. Her full lips form a thin line directed at him, and she does not look away.

“I’m not playing any,” Samson replies, smirking, before Cullen slams the War Room door in his face with a growl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, this chapter got long! I hope the Inquisitor's name is vague enough to be either a Lavellan or Trevelyan. I've been trying to not define whether the Inquisitor is an elf or human. 
> 
> Also, I think we're getting near the end, folks! Only two or three more chapters. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my bff for reading over this a bazillion times when I was feeling very insecure about it. :D
> 
> This chapter is very NSFW. I don't think there's anything triggering in it other than usual creepiness, but if you guys think I should add some kind of warning please let me know.

Samson pulls the red lyrium out of his pocket. Holds it up by the chain in front of his face.

The sunlight through stained glass windows reflect off the prisms and shapes carved into the stone. It’s been made into a heart—not the stupid, symbolic kind that little kids trace in dirt with sticks, or the type that lovesick teenagers carve into trees. It’s in the shape of a real heart, like the one that thuds in Samson’s chest whenever he watches Elain.

It took a lot fucking effort to get the red lyrium in his hands. Samson thinks it’s probably the last of this he’ll ever see. He won’t be able to get away with stealing one of the Inquisition’s ravens again. He’s called in his last favors. Any friends he had are long since dead, turned into monsters that he doesn’t recognize.

No, this is the last red lyrium he’ll ever see. Hold. Touch.

He brings it closer to his face. The rock warms his cheeks like a soft caress. He can smell the lyrium too—it tickles his nose like some spices sold in Kirkwall’s markets. His tongue swells in his mouth. He drools like some dog. He wants to feel the hot rock slide against his tongue. He wants to turn it into liquid, let it drip past his lips and slide down his throat like oil.

He wants one last taste of red lyrium.

But he wants to taste his Inquisitor— _Elain_ —he wants to taste her more.

It should’ve been a helluva lot harder to sneak into her chambers like this. At least there should’ve been guards posted outside her door. Instead, there was one recruit patrolling the Great Hall, made sleepy by the warm afternoon sun. Did the Inquisition think that she was _safe_ here? Safe in her home, safe in Skyhold? Were there no guards on Cullen’s insistence, his belief that he could _protect_ Elain? That boy was always too sure of himself.

Samson’s learned that nowhere in this Maker damned world is safe. Not in a Circle, not in a fortress like Dumat or Skyhold, not even out in the middle of nowhere. He’s learned you always have to be on guard. He tried to let himself relax once, he got lazy and lax, and Maddox was the one who paid the price.

The Inquisition is damn lucky it’s only Samson sneaking into her chambers. Cullen’s lucky he’s not some assassin come to do his lover harm.

When she’s his and no longer Cullen’s, Samson will make sure there’s guards stationed outside her chambers day and night. When she makes him her general, he’ll protect her better than Cullen has. When she fights like she fought against Samson in that humid forest, she won’t be fighting alone. He’ll be by her side; not behind a desk like her Commander, playing with toy soldiers on a map.

She’ll be his after this. She’ll be his after he gives her his gift. His last lyrium.

Samson steps towards her bed. The sheets are unmade. The quilt is thrown aside. Did she sleep here last night?

Was she alone?

Samson climbs onto the bed. His knees leave deep indentations in the soft mattress. Does she like sleeping in some fancy Orlesian bed, or does she prefer the cold hard ground when she travels? Does she prefer stars to stained glass?

He can smell her in here. He sniffs the air. The scent becomes stronger as he nears her pillow. Does she let her hair down at night? Does she let it billow over her pillow? Does she let it frame her face? Does she let Cullen run her hands through it, let him tuck pieces of it behind her ears, let him tug it when they fuck?

No, Samson thinks with an audible growl. Cullen wouldn’t do that.

Cullen probably only fucks her in a bed. This bed, maybe? Samson presses his hips into the mattress, feels the pressure push back up against him. He rolls his hips once, experimentally. Is it only this bed that he fucks her in? Is this where they _make love_ or whatever else Cullen calls it so he doesn’t blush, so he doesn’t feel guilt over defiling the Herald of Andraste?

Samson wouldn’t feel guilty. He’d relish in her warmth. He doesn’t give a fuck if anyone calls him a traitor, calls him her Maferath, so long as she wants him.

Elain probably lies back and recites the Chant while Cullen paws at her. Samson loosens the ties in the front of his breeches and hisses when the cool air touches his bare skin. Would Cullen even touch her breasts? Would he clumsily fumble over her clothes? Samson would pinch and bite at her nipples until they stood pert for him. He would touch her until she writhes underneath him.

He strokes himself long, hard. His body shudders. It’s been so long since he touched himself. It’s been so long since he’s _wanted_ to get off. When was the last time he wanted someone?

It’s not hard to imagine her spread out before him. It’s easy when he’s in her chambers. Her bedsheets tangle around his feet, he grips them hard in one hand, uses the other to stroke himself. She’s slept here. She’s let Cullen fuck her here.

Samson pulls at himself harder. He thinks of her flipped on her front, ass in the air, just _ready_ for him. Waiting for him like Samson’s always waiting for her. He bets she’s never been fucked like a dog before. Cullen only fucks her on her back.

Samson bucks hard into his hand. He’d have her in every positions he can imagine, and he can think of so many for Cullen’s little Mage. For Samson’s Inquisitor. For his _Elain_.

Has she ever come in her bed? Has Cullen ever made her come? Does she just fake it with him to get it over and done with?

His body jerks forward at the thought. He’s not in control of it anymore. Samson breathes heavy through his nostrils. What does she sound like when she comes? Does her mouth hang open? Are her eyes closed or wide open? Does she make little, breathy moans or does she mewl like a cat in heat?

Will she hiss his name? _Samson, Samson, Samson_. There’s a familiar tightness in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he rutted against his own hand like some pathetic teen. He leans forward, resting his forehead against her pillow. He can smell her. He can almost taste her. She surrounds him and she’s all he can think of.

He remembers how she spoke his name in the War Room. Remembers how it spilled from her lips like it was precious. He’d say her name just as dearly. He’d chant it while fucking her so hard that she wouldn’t be able to walk straight. He’d fuck her harder, longer, _better_ than Cullen ever could. Show her what real Templar stamina is.

She’d remember him and remember how he moans her name. ” _Elain_ ,” he groans, feeling his body come apart and betray him. Just for her. _Only_ for her. His seed spills over his hand, and he stops his movements. “Elain, Elain,” he whines into her pillow, closing his eyes tight.

In the stillness of her chamber, as he’s coming down from his high, he hears the red lyrium next to him. Blue sings like a soft hum or a lover’s gentle sigh. Red, though, is loud enough to pound through Samson’s head and chase away thoughts of Elain.

Red tells him that he’s strong. Red tells him that if only if he had more lyrium, he wouldn’t need to rut against his hand like some sick teenager. Red confirms that he’s better than Cullen.

Samson wipes his hand on her bedsheets. He picks up the lyrium pendant that he cast to his side, and places it carefully on her mussed pillow.

It’s the last red lyrium he’ll ever get his hands on, and Samson gives it to her. He’ll give her everything once he takes her from Cullen.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to write an epilogue chapter from Elain's POV, but I think I must admit defeat after so many months. Samson's part of the story ends here, and I wanted to say thank you to all of you for the amazing comments, kudos, and support while writing this. <3 <3 <3

“Her _chambers_ ,” Cullen growls at Samson, “What—how—what did you think—”

Samson wonders if his Inquisitor told Cullen.

Or did Cullen use his _great strategic mind_ and put two and two together? Did Cullen suspect that she was no longer his when she wouldn’t greet him, wouldn’t kiss him, wouldn’t accept his embrace?

Maybe Cullen spotted the red lyrium pendant around her neck, hanging low between her breasts. Did it slip over the collar of her shirt during one of their meetings? Was she playing with it, clutching it in her hands, worrying it between her fingers? Did she lean over to point something out on one of Cullen’s beloved maps, the maps that Cullen played war on with his stupid toy figurines?

Did Cullen know then?

“Commander.” Samson leans against one of the posts just outside of the stables. He glances at his dirty fingernails. “Use your words.”

Leaning, leering, Cullen’s close enough that Samson can smell fucking elderberry and musk. A commander should smell like armor oil and dirt. A soldier should smell like sweat and blood. Even Templars, under their stench of lyrium, smell like warriors. But Cullen smells _clean_ while Samson smells like horseshit.

“You have no right,” Cullen hisses instead of screams, “You have no right to follow her, to invade her space, as you have.”

Samson pushes himself away from the post. This isn’t the Gallows. Cullen is his handler, not his ordained Knight-Captain, and Samson’s not some Templar who lingers after Apprentices. He’s not some lecher lusting after his charges. His Inquisitor’s no simple Circle Mage.

“If she didn’t want my attention,” Samson says, “She would’ve told me to stop.”

Samson’s Inquisitor is fearless. She’s stared down armies and archdemons alike. She’s passionate and ruthless. He admires her for it. He treasures her for all of her sharp edges that she hides from her soft Cullen. He treasures her in spite of Cullen.

If a woman like that didn’t want his attention, she would’ve said something. Instead, her silence is Samson’s invitation. They don’t need to _speak_. The way her eyes linger on him, the way her breath catches—those show that her heart quickens just as much as Samson’s does when they are in a room together.

Cullen’s judgment has always been cloudy when his _feelings_ are involved. Now Cullen lets what he and his Inquisitor had muddle the new reality facing him—that a freed Mage doesn’t want to be chained to a lyrium-addled Templar. That Elain doesn’t want _him_. That she wants someone as strong as her, someone like Samson.

“I don’t care what you think is appropriate. This ends,” Cullen snarls at him. “Your _obsession_ will go no further.”

Samson laughs. “Was that supposed to be threatening?”

“ _Yes_.”

Cullen’s jaw is set, angry and jutting out. There’s tension in his neck. His face turns redder with every moment that goes by. His eyes are narrowed into small slits, and do not deviate from staring down his nose at Samson.

But what really makes Samson pause is that Cullen’s hands are shaking, and Samson doesn’t think it has anything to do with lyrium.

There’s a prickle that starts on the back of Samson’s neck. An ebb that eats at his stomach. But Samson pushes past it. Ignores it. Because he’ll be damned if he’ll let Cullen, this blustering boy, intimidate him.

“What’re you going to do?” Samson asks. He steps closer to Cullen. He’s a few inches taller than the other man, broader too, and he fills Cullen’s whole vision. “Are you going to _fight_ me for her?”

The set of Cullen’s jaw doesn’t change. “The Inquisitor is not a prize to be won.”

“Coward,” Samson spits as Cullen begins to turn away, to walk away, to _leave_ Samson like this is all over after a few empty threats. “You’re just a boy afraid of what the soldiers will think when you lose.”

“I’m not going to fight you,” Cullen repeats. “That is ridiculous.”

Cullen doesn’t get to make that choice. Cullen chose to join the Templars, he chose to follow Meredith, and then he chose to leave. But despite all that, Cullen acts like his hands were tied. He acts like the world played a cruel joke on him and he’s had a horrible _fate_. He act like he was thrust into events that weren’t of his making.

And he still gets to sleep with Samson’s Inquisitor at night.

Cullen sure as hell doesn’t get a choice in this.

“— _no_ , I bet you’re afraid of how quickly she’ll leave you when you lose,” Samson corrects, “What good is a Commander who can’t fight?”

“I will say this one more time, Samson,” Cullen orders. “You will leave her alone.”

Samson’s learned over the years that Templars _take._

A Templar will take a child from their mother’s arms after a barn’s been set on fire from a bad nightmare.

A Templar’ll take a staff from an apostate and snap it over their knee before slapping the poor soul in irons to be dragged off to a Circle.

A Templar’ll take a Mage to the Harrowing chamber. And if that Mage doesn’t want to go, they’ll take them to the dungeons or basement or whatever dark place there is in every Circle. And then they’ll take their soul, their mind, their _self_ with a sunburst brand on the forehead.

And if a Mage passes their Harrowing, a Templar will take their blood. Samson used to ask first. But what’s the point in being polite when everyone in the room knows it’s for show? Samson’s sliced unwilling palms open, let the liquid drip into a vial, handed it off to a Tranquil to do whatever the hell they do to create a phylactery.

Samson’s a Templar.

It’s time that he takes what’s his, what Cullen doesn’t deserve.

Samson’s feet are moving, following the other man. “Knight-Captain,” he calls.

Cullen turns. “I’m no longer—”

Samson hits him.

It’s hard hit. Close fisted, which is Makerdamned stupid because now Samson’s hand stings. But Samson hits him on the jaw, hard enough that Cullen’s head is thrown back and he stumbles a few steps, large feet clumsy.

Cullen lifts one of his gloved hands. He places it against his jaw, rubs where already a bruise is forming, already the skin is swelling. He stares at Samson, brown eyes boiling, and finishes, “I am no longer a Templar.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Samson seethes.

Cullen swings at Samson. His fist connects. Samson’s teeth clatter painfully, and he tastes blood, but he laughs. He laughs loudly, the sound echoing around the courtyard. Cullen has hit him and now Samson can prove how much better he is than the other man.

Samson swings. Cullen takes a step back before the blow lands, and Samson only feels thin air. Cullen may be faster, but Samson’s stronger.

For every blow that Samson lands, Cullen blocks at least two. For every swing that doesn’t hit, Cullen takes a step back, away from Samson. But Samson follows, shoulders hunched, stalking closer, grinning, _itching_ and savoring every time his fist connects with Cullen. Doesn’t matter to Samson that half of his hits don’t matter; Cullen’s got his breastplate on and all it serves to do is bloody Samson’s knuckles, but Samson doesn’t care. It feels good to finally hit Cullen. It feels good to finally show Cullen how much better he is.

There’s a crowd gathering. The Inquisition pretends like it’s better than most armies, but everyone loves a good fight, a good bloodletting, and that’s what Samson intends to give them.

“Is that it, Knight-Captain?” Samson asks as Cullen ducks low to avoid another one of Samson’s hits. “Can you even _land_ a punch?”

Cullen growls low in his throat but he doesn’t attack. He watches Samson’s movements carefully, _calculating_ and for a second Samson wonders if maybe he Cullen really is a good strategist. Doesn’t matter though—can’t use strategies in a fist fight. In the real world, out in the field when it’s one warrior against another, Samson knows it doesn’t matter who thinks about the battle the most. It’s just who wins.

Cullen would know that if he spent any time away from his desk.

They circle one another. “No wonder _she_ doesn’t order to you to join her in the field. You can’t even hit.”

“You don’t know _anything_ about her,” Cullen says.

“I know what she smells like,” Samson replies. Mountain air, fresh flowers, and fucking sunlight. That’s what his Elain smells like. He grins at Cullen. “I even know what her bedsheets smell like.”

Cullen darts forward. He hits Samson hard in the chest, right where his ribs meet his sternum. Samson’s breath catches for a moment—no, it doesn’t _catch_ , it’s that he can’t breathe. He chokes, stumbles back, but Cullen is relentless and follows him.

Cullen’s strikes are harder now. More focused. Samson’s never been good at dodging, at moving out the way, so he takes the hits and feels his body bruising and relishes in the pain, because for every couple of hits Cullen lands Samson lands one of his own.

Cullen’s snarling at him like a Ferelden dog. Samson doesn’t give a shit. Samson digs his feet into the ground, bracing himself. He’s stronger than the other man. Cullen isn’t used to fighting, sitting behind a desk for over a year. He’ll grow tired soon. Samson won’t.

Over Cullen’s shoulder, he can see his Inquisitor standing with the growing crowd. Her face is set hard, eyes watching every movement Samson makes. Nothing betrays her concern except for her small hand, clutching at something near her chest. It’s a small betrayal of her emotions. One that Samson shouldn’t be focused on. But he likes it because it’s a crack in her hard shell and he’s sure he’s the only one who notices.

He watches her hand clutch her token. Watches her thumb run along the edge. Samson grins wide, expecting to see a flash of red. She’s wearing the pendant he left for her. She found it, and she’s wearing it, and as soon as this fight is done everyone will know that she’s his, his, _his_.

She moves her hand. No bright red. Silver instead. A coin.

Why is she clutching a fucking coin?

Samson’s footing slips. It’s all the excuse Cullen needs to throw his weight into Samson. They both crash to the ground.

They roll around. Clutching to one another. Kicking. Dust rises around them, it fills Samson’s throat and stings his eyes. He feels his blows connect with Cullen rather than sees them. He feels Cullen’s fists hit him. But then Cullen grabs his shoulder, digs his fingers into the flesh hard, and snarls, “Don’t even _look_ at her.”

It stings. Burns. He didn’t expect that Cullen digging his fingers into his soft flesh would hurt more than the dozens of bruises forming over his body, but it does. Samson hisses in pain. He throws his hands out, reaching for something, _anything_ to make Cullen stop digging his fingers deeper into the soft flesh between is collarbones.

Samson grabs a fistful of dust. He throws it up into Cullen’s face. He hisses, lets go of Samson’s shoulder, and tries to rub the dirt from his eyes.

Samson reaches and grabs the sword from Cullen’s belt. He pulls it out. Cullen realizes the instant he does so. It’s the first time Samson’s held a sword since he was captured, since he was made a prisoner, but it doesn’t fucking matter because a sword isn’t something to be admired, it’s something to be _used_.

Samson twists the weapon in his hands. Cullen’s finally got the dirt of his eyes, he’s finally getting to his feet, but it’s too late. Samson holds the sword the wrong way, pommel out. He doesn’t need a sharp edge for what he wants to do. He doesn’t need sharp to bash in Cullen’s head.

He brings pommel down hard onto Cullen’s face. His skin breaks. Blood gushes out. Cullen coughs and gasps because the copper liquid is in his mouth and nose and it’s choking him.

Samson just grins.

Samson pins Cullen to the ground. He kicks and struggles and almost throws Samson off. He puts up a good fight. He lands a few more punches, a few more bruises, a few more stings. But what are fists against a sword?

Samson’s hands become slick with blood. He can still grip the pommel though. He can still raise the sword high.

Templars take. But without Cullen around, he won’t need to take. She will be _his_.

He brings the pommel down hard.

It bounces.

Th pommel should be digging into Cullen’s face. It should be breaking his nose, his teeth, but it doesn’t. It bounces.

A blue light surrounds them both. Samson frowns, confused. Cullen doesn’t—Cullen lifts himself to his elbows, grabs his sword back with his gloved hands. He takes it out of Samson’s own slacked and blood covered ones.

Cullen doesn’t strike. He doesn’t land a killing blow. He moves out from under Samson, moves away from him, breathing hard.

Samson looks up. His Inquisitor, his Elain, is pushing through the crowd. She hops over the fence and runs towards the two of them.

Her face had been set hard. Samson’s used to that. Used to seeing it closed off, controlled. But as she runs towards Samson, he sees a softness. A worry. It’s in the way her eyes are wide, the way her bottom lip is swollen, in how her hair has come lose and she doesn’t seem to care, how she runs and doesn’t _stop_ running.

With every step closer she takes, Samson’s chest blooms. He holds his head up higher. His smirk gets wider until it turns into a smile. He’s won. He’s _won_. She realizes now how useless Cullen is. _Everyone_ realizes how useless Cullen is. She knows how much better he is. And she can show it openly now. No more averted eyes, no more lingering.

He holds out his arms. He’s not much of one for a show, but he holds out his arms because he wants to claim her in front of all these people—in front of _Cullen_. He wants Cullen to watch as he presses his rough mouth against her soft lips and tilts her jaw up and studies her openly and closely instead of hiding in some corner.

 _His, his, his._ His Elain. His Inquisitor. His Andraste. Running towards him. Running to him.

Running past him.

“Elain—” he begins to say, but she’s not turning around, not even sparing him a glance.

She runs to Cullen. She falls to her knees next to him. Samson watches as she tugs her sleeve down over her hand and wipes the blood off of his face. “What were you thinking?” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry. She sounds hurt.

“Would you believe if I said I wasn’t?” Cullen asks her.

She half laughs and the other half sounds like a sob. She keeps brushing the blood off of his face with a sleeve and Cullen keeps wincing every time she touches his tender face, but he doesn’t complain. He grabs her hand, turns it over, and presses a tender kiss to her wrist. She calms at the motion.

“I thought you said you weren’t very good at barriers,” Cullen says thickly. He looks pale. Blood still streams down his face.

“I’m not,” Elain says, “You’re lucky it was only a pommel strike.”

“Lucky,” Cullen echoes. “Right.”

She smiles at him. Sops some more blood off of his face. Her sleeve is half soaked in it, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“I, uh, believe I may need to see a healer,” Cullen says. He tries to stand up. He succeeds on his own, but he wobbles and Elain is immediately by his side, supporting him.

She turns her face towards Samson. Gone is the soft look. Gone is the worry. She looks hard. Angry like she did in the Temple where they first met.

He won. He _won_. Cullen is bloodied and barely standing, and he would be dead if it wasn’t for her. How is it that she is by Cullen’s side and not his?

“Please escort _Samson_ —”

He’s not heard her say his name before. Not since he thought that they…that he...that they were…not since he thought that _she_ was _his_.

She says his name like it’s a curse. Let’s the word fall out of her mouth like barbed wire. Like poison. She talks like his name is disgusting. Like his name isn’t worth shit.

“—to his cell.”

“Right,” Samson spits. “Throw me back in a fucking cell. Right. Just like everyone else, eh, Herald?”

She glances at him. Looks down her nose at him. Self-righteous. “Make sure he doesn’t leave until the Inquisition calls him for judgment.”

Samson’s pulled up by his arms. He shakes off the soldiers. They grip him harder; he stands up straight. So she’s _chosen_ this. She’s _chosen_ a gilded Knight-Captain. She’s chose self-righteousness. She’s chosen to be ignorant and to use him and to be just like the fucking Chantry.

He spits blood on the ground and he’s led away. She wrinkles her nose. Good. He doesn’t want her kindness. Doesn’t want her pity. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he doesn’t, and that sick feeling in his stomach, that deflated feeling—it’s just from his aching bones and bruised body.

There’s an empty bottle of lyrium in his cell. He gets led in. Not thrown. As if that makes the soldiers here _good_. As if one kindness makes them better.

He picks up the vial. Tilts it. There’s a few drops of blue shit that he lets dip onto his tongue.

He should’ve saved that red lyrium for himself. He should’ve never been so stupid. So blinded by hope. He lets it happen to him again and again and he always ends up back in the same place—clothes dirtied, more bitter each time, trying to scrape the last bits of lyrium from a vial.

Judgment. He’ll await it. He’ll be thrown onto the ground in front of his—no, _the_ Inquisitor again. He doesn’t give a shit. Just as he didn’t last time.

The Inquisition used him just like the Chantry did. They used him for Dagna’s research, pried the locations of the Venatori out of him with kind words and soft looks, had him shovel horseshit and build walls like some common laborer and not the _general_ that Corypheus made him.

The Inquisition is the same as the Chantry. Same as the Templar Order.

Samson lets the empty vial drop to the ground.

Except for a while there he thought their prophet was prettier.


End file.
